Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

“I’m just leaving. Catching a Herc out to WAIS Divide in about two hours. Working on one of the projects that are coming out of that core.”

“I guess you’ve heard what happened. To Emmett, I mean.”

Schwartz scowled and shrugged his shoulders. “He left, is all I heard.”

“Left? He was hauled off the ice by some federal agents. Arrested.”

He shrugged again. The scowl became more petulant.

So little reaction? You did know this. You’re lying. “ Yeah, well, I’m trying to get some information about what happened last year. I was hoping you could fill me in.”

“What’s there to tell? This asshole journalist bullied his way into the high camp and then croaked. It sucked. So, what’s up with Emmett? They saying he lost the Gamow bag on purpose?”

Valena watched her fellow climate student closely, trying to catch every little twitch of muscle or inflection to his speech. “I don’t know. Do you think there’s anything to that idea?”

Once again he shrugged, just one shoulder this time. “Ask Cal when he comes in from WAIS.”

What are you hiding? Valena wondered. “So Cal Hart’s coming to McMurdo? When do you think he might arrive?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he’ll return on the plane that takes me out there. If we get to go today. Weather out there always sucks. Well, I’m outta here,” he said, and started to turn away.

“Wait. Help me with this: you’re up there at high elevation in a tremendous storm. The Airlift Wing drops a chute with the Gamow bag. Where were you?”

“In my tent!” He glowered at her, his eyes like needles. Then, in a more sulking tone, he added, “With Dan Lindemann. We stayed the hell out of the way. We were not there. And I’ve told this to the feds half a dozen times already!”

“You worm , thought Valena. You nematode. So you were just finishing your doctorate with Emmett, am I right?”

“Oh, now don’t get going on that crap! I did what I had to do. I had a career to look after!”

“I—”

The phone rang.

Valena leaned over and grabbed the handset off its cradle. “Just a moment. I’ve got to get this call through, and then we can—”

But she was speaking to an empty doorway.

Valena wanted to chase after him and get more information—a half dozen questions now spun in her brain—but she didn’t want to lose the line out. An electronic voice was asking her to punch in her calling card number again. She did.

A few seconds ticked by, during which time she listened to the sound of ten thousand miles of electronic space. At last the sound changed, but alas, it changed to a busy signal.

Valena slammed the phone back into its cradle. Spitting mad, she began the whole process again, once again heard the “hang up and wait” signal, and did so. She folded her arms fiercely across her chest and stared at the phone.

Moments ticked past.

She kicked the office door shut, swung her swivel chair back toward the desk and pulled Vanderzee’s computer out from behind her pack. Clicking quickly through his filing system, she came up with a category that commanded her interest: FINANCIAL NEWS, it said.

When she opened that subdirectory, she found three more, listed alphabetically: LETTER TO EDITOR, OTHER CORRESPONDENCE, and SWEENY ARTICLE.

She glanced at the clock at the lower right-hand corner of the laptop’s screen to see what time it was. Breakfast was under way now, and she had about an hour and a quarter before she was due at Happy Camp. In that time, she needed to eat, come back here to change into her ECWs, and get to the Science Support Center, where the class would gather. She decided to take a quick glance at whatever LETTER TO EDITOR had to offer, because, she reasoned, letters were lots shorter than articles, and OTHER most likely had something to do with follow-up communications based on whatever ARTICLE and LETTER were about.

As she opened the first file, she heard a knock at the door. She slapped the laptop shut again and looked up, imagining that it might be Bob Schwartz thinking better of his escape. But when she stood up and opened the door, she discovered that it was Michael, the man who had helped her with the computer in the library the day before.

“Good morning,” he said. “All ready for Happy Camp?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Just trying to get a few things done first.”

He nodded. “Great. I’m on my way over to breakfast. Care to join me?”

Valena glanced at the telephone. “I’m sort of waiting for a call.”

He shook his head. “You wait and wait for a line, and then they aren’t home.”

“It was busy the first time,” she said.

“Well, I’m off.”

“See you over there.”

Michael disappeared down the hallway whistling.

The phone rang. She picked it up and dialed. This time the connection went through, rang three times, and was answered. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice.

Valena recognized Sahar, Taha’s wife. The image of her dark eyes and prim scarf came to mind. “Hello,” said Valena, marveling at how clear and immediate the connection was. “Um, is Taha there, please?”

“Taha? Oh, no, he left hours ago. Who may I say called?”

“This is Valena.”

“Oh! Valena, where are you calling from?”

“Antarctica.”

“Oh, my, well, that is a long way away. Is it very cold there?”

“Well, not where I’m sitting. It’s maybe—” She stopped herself, unwilling to use her precious long-distance minutes with pleasantries. “I’m sorry, Sahar, but I don’t have much time to talk. Is—um, well I wanted to ask Taha a few questions about what the NSF said to him about the situation down here.”

“Situation? Taha told me very little, except that his travels were delayed. Taha does not like to worry me,” said Sahar, letting her voice drop to a deeper register.

“Does he seem… upset at all?”

“Well…”

Valena could almost hear the gears turn in Sahar’s mind. She was a very traditional wife from a culture very different from the one Valena understood. It was clear that she did not like to be outspoken on personal matters. She and Taha had come to America from Palestine so that he could pursue studies in desert systems, but he had gotten the bug to study the coldest desert on earth, Antarctica. Taha was very bright and hard-working, a prize student for any professor.

Finally, Sahar said, “I think he is quite concerned. Can he call you back? I am certain that he would like to talk to you.”

“No, he can’t call here, and I have to leave, anyway. Can you relay a message for me? Please ask him to answer my e-mail as best he can. It’s important.”

“Oh, certainly, Valena.” She paused. “Is something wrong there? I am wondering why he is delayed.”

“I’m certain that everything will work out,” she heard herself say. She offered a cheery closing salutation, hung up the phone, and then sat for a moment, contemplating her next move. Get a message to Lindemann , she told herself.

Quickly, she dug into her kit and produced her notebook paper and a pen. After a short greeting explaining who she was, she wrote:

Emmett has been removed from McMurdo under guard, apparently under arrest. I need to talk to you about what happened last year.

Thinking better of this approach, she scribbled that out and tried again. And again. After the fourth try, she realized that she had no idea whose side Lindemann was on, much less whether it was at all smart to contact any of the eight people who had been in the camp, at least in this manner. Several things could go wrong. Her message could be intercepted or lost, or one of them could turn her in to George Bellamy. Or worse yet, if anyone had anything to hide, this would put him or her on the alert.